


Whumptober 2020 prompts

by Anyawen



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV), The Hour (TV)
Genre: Angst, Don't copy to another site, Drabbles, Drug Use, Gen, Injury, M/M, Self Harm, Whumptober 2020, a drabble a day for october, multi-fandom - Freeform, prompt fics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:55:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 3,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26763934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anyawen/pseuds/Anyawen
Summary: A collection of drabbles written for the Whumptober 2020 prompt list. Likely to include drabbles in both my main fandoms.
Relationships: James Bond & Freddie Lyon, James Bond & Q, James Bond/Q, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 141
Kudos: 51





	1. Bruises

**Author's Note:**

> MCD may be heavily implied in some of these drabbles. It is WHUMPtober. But I've not tagged for MCD because I can think of ways in which the various situations are survived. Recovery may not be 100%, or even 50%, but survival is possible. It just ... isn't in the fic because the fic is for whump. Various hopeful scenarios for survival/recovery might make their way into the comments.

He'd seen colors like this before. An artist's palette of indigos and purples rippling across the sky, edging into greens and yellows. He'd lingered outside, breath visible in the frigid air, and thought it beautiful. Almost divine.

He was colder now than he'd been then, shivering as he stared at the hateful colors spread across his lover's torso. Livid mementos of hurts endured. An obscene work of art. Absolutely blasphemous.

He reached careful, trembling fingers to gently caress the abused flesh.

Warmth under his chilled fingers confirmed the truth told by the beeping machines. Bloodied and bruised, he still lived.


	2. Starvation

He looked at the gaunt, emaciated form of his brother, tucked under warmed hospital blankets, and felt guilt gnawing at him.

Eating him alive.

Horrible choice of words.

He wasn't responsible for the three weeks his brother had spent in captivity in that foreign hellhole. His deductive prowess was useless in the face of a diplomatic mission gone wrong. He could do nothing as the negotiations for the release of hostages dragged on.

While his brother and the others were slowly starved to death.

The last taunting, snarky text he'd sent before the ill-fated trip haunted him.

'How's the diet?'


	3. Stabbed

"Jesus Christ, Q! What have they done to you?"

"Bond?" The boffin struggled to focus on the figure approaching him in a cautious hurry, gun raised and eyes darting around the room.

"I'm here. I've got you. You're safe, now."

Q's slightly hysterical laughter trailed off to whimpers as the movement jostled his injuries.

"Are you hurt anywhere else?"

"Just what you see," Q replied, his voice a pain-filled whisper.

"I'll get you out of this, Q," Bond breathed, holstering his Walther and reaching for the first of the rusty knives stabbed through Q's hands, pinning him to the table.


	4. Explosion

The bare cement basement was stained with old blood, and reeked of death. A forensic team worked in silence, breathing shallowly in the thick air. Donovan lingered near the door as Lestrade and John trailed behind Sherlock.

Everyone ducked at the sound of the basement window shattering. The dull clang of metal on cement was audible over the shower of glass. A second later Lestrade was shouting and pulling Sherlock toward the door.

An oddly muffled thud came from behind him. Sherlock knew what he'd see before he turned. Curled around the grenade, in a puddle of fresh blood—

" _John!_ "


	5. Sleep Deprivation

He'd had this dream before. It was annoyingly common.

He was running a mission. Frustrated with the quality or quantity of the intelligence he had to offer, annoyed with the intransigence of the agent, offended by the stupidity of humanity ... and exhausted.

So tired. Drained beyond reason. Beyond thought. Impaired.

He usually shouted himself awake when his fatigue led to fatal errors and cost agents their lives.

Swaying on his feet, he stared at the screen where the tracker had faded out, surrounded by shocked silence. After nearly 100 hours without sleep, Q waited to wake up from the nightmare.


	6. Brainwashed

"If this is your idea of a joke, Mycroft—"

"I wish it were, brother mine."

"How did he come to believe this nonsense? That he married an assassin who shot me? That I forgave her —that _he_ forgave her? That he blamed me when she defied physics and jumped in front of a bullet and left their daughter motherless?"

"Eurus escaped. She insinuated herself as his new therapist. She manipulated and brainwashed him until he was convinced it was true. She has been apprehended and returned to Sherrinford."

"Eurus? Who is Eurus?"

"Our sister."

"We don't have a sister, Mycroft."


	7. Guilt

"You couldn't have known," Madeleine soothed.

"No, but I could have asked. I saw him the morning I picked up the car. I should have asked."

"It was a chaotic time, James. You can't expect—"

"Stop making excuses for me. He was my friend. He was my ... And he was injured and I didn't know."

Racked with guilt, he left. She didn't call after him.

Q hadn't said anything about the bullet fragment that hit his neck the night they'd stopped Oberhauser and Nine Eyes. Bond hadn't known. Hadn't asked.

He was asking now.

"Tanner? Any updates on Q's surgery?"


	8. Scar

Relieved to have finally earned Q's forgiveness, James planned to worship Q as he reacquainted himself with the boffin's body. He drifted lower, mouthing kisses across stomach, hips, thighs— 

"Why are you stopping? James, I swear—"

"This is new," James interrupted, drawing a finger along a nearly invisible line on Q's upper thigh.

"About five years old, actually."

"An accident?"

"An experiment."

"You cut yourself? On purpose? Why?"

"It gave me an external focus for internal pain."

"Did you ... only once?"

"It was messy, and the effect was brief. I found other distractions, though they were also messy and brief."


	9. Terminal Illness

"You should have told me, John."

"Yeah? When? When you left me to catch a different cab so you could plan your rooftop meeting with Moriarty? During the phone call when you made me your note? When exactly—" John broke off, coughing.

"I just wish—"

"Yeah, me, too. I wish you'd given me the chance. If you'd told me your plan, I could have saved you the time and me the heartache. No use throwing your life away to save a dead man walking."

"You're not— You're not dead yet."

"Not quite. I'm glad you're with me at the end."


	10. Threats

"We know your weakness, Mr Holmes."

"Do you, now?" Sherlock asked, eyeing the man before him, and the three armed men standing behind him. 

"Moriarty was the first to see it. Many doubted his conclusion. A sociopath with a heart? Absurd. But then you faked your suicide and spent years working to eliminate the threat to Dr Watson. So, he was right after all. Yes. We know your weakness."

"Idiot. John isn't my weakness. He's my strength."

"Well. We'll see how strong you're feeling after we're done with him," the man said, picking up a bamboo cane. "Bring him in."


	11. Fever

"They're doing everything they can, Bond," Tanner said as he herded the agent from the room. "He's lucky you found him when you did."

"Lucky," Bond echoed, watching as the doctors and nurses swarmed around Q, starting an IV to rehydrate him and deliver antipyretics, and placing cold packs to either side of his neck. "We have no idea how long he laid there, unconscious, burning up."

"What's important is he's here now, receiving the best care. They'll get it under control. Look, he's moving now. He's responding."

Bond watched through the window, frowning.

"No, he's not responding. He's seizing."


	12. Jealousy

He knew it was a mistake as he tapped the icon and sent the text on its way. It was the fourth text in 15 minutes. There was no way that John, even at his most unobservant, would fail to connect the dots.

He'd always been in the habit of interrupting John's dates. Since learning John was bisexual, though, Sherlock's fears had multiplied. 

Grabbing a pint with Lestrade wasn't a date, was it? 

Sherlock was insecure. Jealous. Possessive. And he could not stop himself sending another text, even as he feared his anxious, demanding behavior might finally push John away.


	13. Drowning

Thrown overboard and caught in the ship's wake, dragged deep into the water, he fought the instinct to gasp at the shock of cold.

Disoriented by the turbulence, he didn't know which way was up. The bubbles seemed to go in all directions in the churning water, rather than ascending to the surface.

God, he was cold. His lungs ached, burning with the need to breathe. He refused to panic as he tried to figure out which way to swim to reach the surface. He couldn't panic. He _wouldn't_ panic.

He would not let James lose another lover to drowning.


	14. Blindfolded

Sherlock prided himself on his acute senses. The ability to paint a picture from only the faintest of scents or barely audible sounds was key in the Work. 

Restrained and blindfolded, he cursed his hypersensitivity as he still witnessed Breuggar's assault on John in the thud of fist on flesh, and muffled cries of pain, and the heavy tang of iron in the air. 

Distressingly loud, and disturbingly faint, Sherlock strained his senses to focus on the sound that was proof that John still lived. He waited desperately to hear the soft wet splatter of the next drop of blood.


	15. Stitches

"Careful," James said, ducking away as Q came up behind him and leaned his chin on James' shoulder. "Had a run-in with a sharp implement."

"You're hurt?" Q demanded, tugging gently to pull James' jacket away to see the injury. "Why didn't you go to medical? And why does your shoulder smell like mint?"

"It's already stitched up, no need to bother with medical," James said as he cautiously slipped his arm free and unbuttoned his shirt.

Q stared at the jagged cut held closed with a rambling line of green stitches.

"I used dental floss," James said. "Minty fresh."


	16. On His Knees

He heard the muffled report of the silenced gun, followed by a thud as a body slumped to the floor. Fourth in the line of bound, kneeling men awaiting execution, Sherlock didn't raise his head.

So close to done, ready to go home —to London, to _John_ — he'd been caught. They hadn't bothered with interrogation. They didn't care who he was or why he was there. This place was off limits. Trespassers were captured and killed, without exception.

Another shot, another body hit the ground.

At least this last cell would die here with him, and John would be safe.


	17. Friendly Fire

Freddie stared in horror.

He'd come to The Clairvoyant to meet an informant. Catching sight of him ducking into an alley, he'd followed to see him assault another man. The other man fought back, gaining the upper hand.

Then Freddie had seen the flash of a knife in his informant's hand.

Almost without thought, he'd picked up an empty bottle from the pub's rubbish bin and thrown it. The bottle hit the wall and exploded, sending shards flying. The informant bolted.

The other man turned.

Raising a hand to the jagged wound on his neck, James staggered into the light.


	18. Shaking Hands

He hated this part. The high worn off, the vividness of the world, and the clarity of his thoughts dimming. Or, alternately, the carefree, floating fading away, letting the weight of the world creep back in.

He hated that he hadn't wanted the drugs he'd been given, but he craved the next hit.

He hated that John would be disappointed.

He hated the knowledge that his brain —his intelligence and his willpower— were not sufficient. If he wanted to stop, he would need help.

_If._

His phone lay next to a prepared syringe. His hands shook as he reached out.


	19. Secret Injury

He ignored the way his trousers stuck to his leg, tacky, and warm. He was glad their dark coloring hid evidence of the wound as he disregarded the chaos of the room to focus on the comlink.

He dismissed the searing pain of the injury, knowing it hadn't hit the artery. He'd have bled out already.

He waved Tanner away to deal with the panic of the minions and concentrated on relaying the information to his agent.

"What's going on?"

"Minor accident in the branch," he replied.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Q lied. "Now, do pay attention, 007."


	20. Abandoned

"He's not coming back," she said.

"Shut up."

"I don't think so."

"Why are you here? You're dead. Not real. Just a memory."

"Dead, yes," she agreed. "But real enough, and a bit more than a memory, don't you think? I'm you, wearing this face and telling you things you already know, but don't want to acknowledge. Because you do know it, don't you? He's not coming back."

"Go away. Go haunt someone else."

"You know as well as I do —because I'm you— that he's got his own version of me. And of you. And _he's not coming back_."


	21. Human Shield

He knows physics. There is no way to jump in front of a target and take a bullet that's already been fired. The only way to catch the bullet is to go first. James will curse him, but he will follow, taking advantage of what cover Q's slim form provides. 

He's unlikely to survive, he knows. But if James goes first, after having insisted on giving Q his body armor, he'll be killed and they'll have Q anyway.

These are the best odds they're going to get.

Q darts out, rushing the gunman, hearing James scramble behind his human shield.


	22. Funeral

It had been a difficult eight months for Freddie. A childhood friend had been murdered, and his lengthy investigation had led to the discovery that his mentor was a traitor —a Soviet spy— and his boyfriend was a government secret agent. He'd been in something of a tailspin at the dual betrayals, though the situation with James had been resolved. In the aftermath of events he'd insisted on taking the heat for controversial decisions in order to shield Bel, and lost his job at The Hour.

And today ... he'd buried his father.

Only James at his side kept him standing.


	23. Frostbite

He'd had a shelter of sorts, but no signal if he stayed there. Leaving it was his only chance of connecting to a network before the phone battery died. It also meant trudging through the cold without stopping, because stopping equaled death.

The air temperature was only just below zero, but the wind was strong and steady.

He hadn't stopped. They'd found him three hours later, dehydrated, frostbitten, hypothermic.

There was reason to believe that the leeches on his black-tipped fingers would save them from amputation. 

Q couldn't bring himself to look at the bloodsuckers, but he prayed they'd work.


	24. Hospital

John Watson hated hospitals. Which was ironic, given his profession. Still. Hospitals were never associated with good news —received, or given. Even when surgeries or treatments were successful, there really was no such thing as a 'full recovery'.

Something was always lost, even if it was just time. Better than the alternative, to be sure, but finally leaving the hospital didn't mean going back to 'normal', not really. Life went on, but everything was shifted slightly. Nothing was ever the same.

Hospitals were life-altering, one way or another.

Still, he sat by the side of Sherlock's bed and waited, hoping.


	25. Blinded

"Q," Bond said as he stumbled into his room, falling back against the door to slam it closed and trying not to give in to the nausea or dizziness. "Poison, Q."

He felt a sting in the back of his wrist as Q activated gadgetry in his watch.

"Blood analysis confirms methanol toxicity," Q murmured in his ear.

"Antidote?"

"Is there a mini bar in your room?"

"Yes."

"Your liver won't thank us, and you'll have a hell of a hangover, but if you want to keep your eyesight, you're going to need to drink yourself blind until medivac arrives."


	26. Angry Mob

"I thought angry mobs always had pitchforks," Sherlock said, pulling John into a shadowed alley with him.

"We're a bit urban for pitchforks," John gasped. "Lots of cricket bats, though. And a shovel."

"Useful for hiding bodies."

"I'd prefer to avoid that, but honestly, given how riled up they are, I think violence is a foregone conclusion."

"They have to catch us first."

Shouts came from the street as the crowd approached. They turned to find the way blocked —a handful of men approaching from the other end of the alley.

Back to back, they prepared to meet the mob.


	27. Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> None of the day's prompts really worked for me today, so I used one of the alternates provided.

Q stayed below deck while the storm raged. In anticipation of being sick —again— he kept himself shut in the boat's tiny loo. His body ached from being thrown into the wall, and the door, and the sink, as the boat was tossed about. The life vest provided a bit of padding, and he was grateful that James had made him put it on.

He was even more grateful that James wore one as well. 

When the storm passed, he would put James' instruction to the test, and pilot the boat to track the signal of the man washed overboard.


	28. 'Goodbye'

John let Sherlock rant, ignoring the words and focusing on the tone. For all his crowing that it was about time that Mycroft acknowledge his agency and treat him as an adult, there was an undercurrent of loss. Their relationship had been fraught for decades, but it had been stable. Much as he'd rail against Mycroft's overbearing nature, it had been an anchor.

Mycroft had seen the lasting negative consequences of his interference after Sherrinford. Determined to do no further harm, he removed himself from Sherlock's life with a quiet, pained, 'Goodbye, brother mine.'

John prepared himself for the fallout.


	29. Rope Burn

The kidnappers had used a tranquilizer dart to capture him. No fighting. No injuries.

He'd awakened tied to a chair with rough sisal rope, alone. No threats. No demands.

They were good with knots. It had taken him hours and several layers of skin to get himself freed. He ignored the stinging of his wrists as he searched the building in which he'd been left. No traces. No clues.

They had captured him, confined him, demanded nothing, and vanished. They hadn't wanted anything from him. They'd needed him out of the way.

They were after someone else.

"Q," he breathed.


	30. Muzzled

He could taste blood. Unsurprising, really. His captors had grown tired of his deductions early on. When backhanding hadn't shut him up, he'd taken a right hook that had split his lip and loosened two teeth. He hadn't stopped deducing, though, hoping to drive a wedge between the three men, preoccupy them with doubts about each other so he could attempt an escape.

It hadn't worked.

"Put a muzzle on the son of a bitch," their leader ordered.

The makeshift gag was tied tightly enough to tear the flesh at the sides of his mouth and make his jaw ache.


	31. Empty Shell

"What have you got there?" Tanner asked.

"Empty shell," Mallory replied showing him the casing.

"Ah."

The gunman had managed only one shot before MI6 agents had swarmed him. He'd missed his target.

"I didn't expect him to do that, not for me. For Mansfield, yes. He cared for her."

"Deeply, in his own way," Tanner agreed. "But that's not why he'd put himself at risk for her. He'd have done it because he respected her. And he respects you."

Mallory nodded wearily.

"Q's with him. The doctors say he'll pull through. But his career as a 00 is over."


End file.
